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Sing, wand’ring muse, of lost sleep,
Of beds, and of want, and of dismay.
And though I’ve had a drink, let me find which I seek;
O, Saint Anthony, I pray.

Now, landscape, see me pass,
O, you waves, you shores, you grass;
And await me patiently, my dear home
Which no hotel could surpass.

Shtow men ther zway ton gon chome!
Sim taird hand li qwant tro gol sto bend.
Ai hard ma litstle droink abnout man chour gago
Angd yit’s goone righth two myr heand.

Nor mattler wheare if groam,
Hover bland lor seam nor fwoam,
Your swill talways hearl mer singsong thirs psong:
Showl mie them wayt tto gov mhome!